


Stay with me

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of AU Captain Swan drabbles, prompted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Tell me more, tell me more - Camp Counselor AU  
**

She’s tired – the muscles of her body pleasantly worn after a day spent chasing after little ones on the beach – the happy remnants of their laughter echoing in the near silent bus as the children finally give in to their exhaustion. She watches as he carefully counts heads towards the front, blue eyes narrowed in concentration, the bridge of his nose turning red from too long in the sun without any sort of sunscreen.

_(“Sunscreen is for yuppies, Swan. Not us wild things.”)_

He catches her gaze and gives her a crooked grin that she returns sleepily, a wide yawn cracking her jaw as he starts to move back down the aisle towards her. She scoots over in the seat and tangles her fingers in the front of his faded sweatshirt (the skull and crossbones a _ridiculous_ symbol for his team of campers – the pirates, of course), pulling him down next to her.

His arm falls around her without hesitation, tucking her in close as he leans his head back against the seat. They usually don’t show so much affection around the kids – but they are all asleep and the seats are high and there are at least four empty rows between them. Killian hums lightly under his breath and nudges at her ear, wincing when the red and raw skin of his nose makes contact.

She chuckles and swings her legs over his lap, pressing a kiss under his ear as he grumbles.

“You mock my pain?” He sticks his bottom lip out in an adorable pout and she nips at it, laughter turning to a moan when he chases her lips with his own, tongue caressing her lip in a gentle flutter. Her fingers sink into his hair as he pushes over her, his skin warm from the sun, his mouth tasting like strawberry popsicles.

“How many popsicles did you steal from the kids today?” She mutters against his lips, arching slightly when his fingers dip under her tank top, sliding against the soft skin of her lower back. He sighs and smiles into her lips (he tastes like summer), fingers slowly inching higher, toying with the string of her bikini.

“One, perhaps two.”

She tilts her head and slides her tongue into his mouth, humming lightly when she pulls back. She arches an eyebrow at his dopey grin. “Tastes like four, perhaps five.”

His nose nudges hers in an affectionate bump as his fingers tug lightly at her top. “Maybe you should try again.”

He leans in for her lips but she shies away, tilting her face away with a light laugh as his scruff brushes at her neck. His fingers tighten around her ribcage with a rumbled groan and she slides her hand over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget where we are.” She murmurs, remembering the bus load of children they’re charged with taking care of. He nips at her neck and she can _feel_ him roll his eyes.

“Robin and Regina are at the front, and they’re all asleep anyway.” His fingers press against the ridges of her spine as he shifts in their seat, pushing her further back against the window. “And I’ve wanted you all bloody day.”

She hears the timbre of his voice, knows what it means when it gets low and scratchy like that. She thinks of earlier when they were in the water, his hands sliding along the bare skin of her thighs as he drew closer, hidden by the murky depths of the surf as his fingertips skimmed lower, _lower_. Her thighs clench in response, a thrumming heat building in her stomach, and she swallows hard.

“Killian – “

“Shh, just relax. We’re taking a nap.” He pulls back momentarily to slide his hoodie over his head and she furrows her brows in confusion before he tosses it lightly over their laps, adjusting them both until they are half spooning, half reclining in their small seat.

His fingertips begin a slow drag up her thigh and she shifts, biting her tongue as the heat in her stomach flips and flares.

“Killian.” She hisses but he just nips at her neck, fingers sliding higher beneath the cover of his hoodie. His thumb flicks open the button of her jean shorts, his hand dipping in to cup her hotly through her swimsuit. She pushes into his hand and his teeth sink deeper into the skin of her neck.

“Spread your legs, Emma.”

She does as she’s told because she’s helpless to deny him anything – this silly, stupid, summer boy with his wide grin and blue, blue eyes. She is burning, hot flames licking at her from the inside out as his fingers drag against her most sensitive place, pleasure shooting through her as he starts a slow rhythm. She _needs_ him – needs his touch to soothe the ache away.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers in her ear and her fingers clench in front of her, nails biting into her skin as his lightly pull her swimsuit to the side, making contact with slick, warm heat (he isn’t the only one who has been wanting today). His breath comes out stilted and heavy as he drags through her wetness, circling her clit with a light thrust of his hips against her back.

“God – “ He pushes his hand tighter against her and she bites her tongue so hard it bleeds. She wants nothing more than to push off her pants and climb on top of him, press against his shoulders as she takes him, watch the way his face contorts in pleasure for her, have him break beneath her. But they can’t so she rocks her hips into his hand, whining low in her throat when his fingers slide lower, circling her entrance in light, teasing circles.

They hit a bump in the road and his hand slips, two fingers thrusting up roughly into her. She gasps and arches her back, pressing herself down harder.

“Fuck.” He mutters and then he’s moving his fingers in earnest, fucking her hard and rough as his thumb slides over her clit. She brings his free hand around her front as the heat rises and consumes her, biting down hard on the juncture between his thumb and forefinger to keep herself silent. He curses into her hair and bites down hard on her neck and she comes – overwhelming pleasure washing over her in waves, his fingers gentling as he brings her down from her high.

She tilts her head and presses her lips against his, sighing at the boneless exhaustion that seeps through every bit of her. She yelps lightly when he pulls his hand back and he chuckles, deep and rumbling against her throat.

“Come to my cabin later?” He ruts his hips against her and she can feel him, thick and straining against the small of her back. She presses against him and his hand tightens on her bare hip in warning.

“I’ll bring popsicles.” She whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

_Prompt: Pirate Emma and Pirate Hook_

**heavy seas.**

He groans at the hot pressure of her surrounding him, her hips pushing up with every shallow thrust, her fingers twisting through his hair and pulling – demanding as ever, _the minx_. She’s splayed beneath him like the prize she is – golden hair bright in the dim light of the cave, the shining coin that covers every square inch of the place causing her to slide with their stilted and frantic movements.

“So tight, darling.” He pushes into her harder, fingers bruising as he clenches over bare skin. She bites her lip and arches slightly and he smiles because he can tell when she’s close – when she makes that sound in the back of her throat and her legs tremble the way they do around his waist – she is _close_. One green eye peers open with a glare and she nips at his throat, hitching her leg up high around his waist and turning them in a quick and forceful movement. She balances herself on his chest and begins to ride him in earnest, hips rocking back and forth quickly, grinding herself against him.

“That’s it, love. Just like that.”

 “Do you ever shut up?” She pants, cutting off on a moan when he draws his knees up beneath her, thrusting up harder.

He grins and watches as her hand grips at her breast, fingers pulling at her pink and puckered flesh as her head drops back, the strands tickling his knees. He loves her like this – desperate, wanton, needy – the cool and collected captain disposed for the passionate woman underneath. 

“You like it when I talk.” He grits out and his fingers find where they are joined, thumb rubbing against her in tight circles – just the way she likes. Her chin drops to her chest with a low groan as she tightens around him and he clenches his teeth – thumb moving harder through her wetness. Her movements become jagged as she flutters around him, gripping him tight and drawing his own orgasm from him in a flash of white hot heat. His hips pump against her restlessly as she continues to rock and he groans out long and loud, the treasure digging into his back painfully but the ecstasy of _her_ enough to distract.

She slumps on top of him, forehead falling to his chest with a light groan. He stretches slightly and tucks his hands behind his head, delicious exhaustion rolling through his tired and pleasantly _used_ muscles. She sits up slightly, eyes darting around for her shirt.

“ _You_ like it when you talk.” She mutters.

She pulls up off of him with a grimace and he tilts his head as she pulls on her clothes, watching her graceful and lithe body as she bends at the waist. How she manages to have such pale skin being on a ship all the time is a mystery to him – but still, he isn’t complaining as he watches her creamy legs disappear into her leather breeches. Her skin is covered with the crisscross of faint scars – some he knows the stories to and most he does not. He frowns when he takes in the one on her hipbone – inflicted by his own hand on one of their first meetings.  

She arches an eyebrow at him as she pulls on her vest, the swell of her breasts disappearing beneath the confining material. He remains naked and sprawled out over the treasure because he can’t yet bring himself to move – and he knows it pisses her off.

Old habits and all that.

She flicks a gold coin at his head and he catches it easily. Her lips tilt up slightly when he winks and he counts it as a victory.

“Always a pleasure, Captain Jones.”

He tips his head with a mock salute. “Likewise, Captain Swan.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Prompt: Wedding Date AU_

**sway with me.**

She can feel his eyes on her across the crowded party and she frowns, wringing her hands together as she shuffles further back against the low wall that circles the patio. She furtively keeps her gaze on the ground, choosing to count the cracks in the stone instead of looking across and meeting his stare.

She was stupid for coming – there is no way she is making it out of this weekend intact. She is still too broken, still too _hurt._ One look from him and she is reduced back to that lost girl he had left without a word – cheating on her with her _best friend_ and decimating her to dust in the process.

She was stupid for coming.

Two black shoes appear in her line of sight and she sighs, a different kind of anticipation twisting in her gut. Her eyes trail up slim black plants, over a crisp white button down (hardly buttoned at all, she muses, his chest hair _painfully_ distracting at the open v of his shirt), finally meeting his quirking lips and blue eyes with a slightly exasperated sigh.

She was _really_ stupid for hiring an escort.

“Where have you been?” She mutters agitated, choosing to channel all of her aggression into him. He doesn’t seem to mind, instead handing her a champagne flute and taking a step closer to her, invading her personal space.

She inhales sharply as his scent surrounds her – clean and masculine and _fuck_ \- she is _paying_ this man to pretend to be her boyfriend. _Jesus_ is she pathetic.

“He’s looking over here, isn’t he?” His lilting voice makes her body feel strange and dangerous things and she tries to take a step back as he moves closer, but she is met by the low wall at the backs of her knees. He reaches around her to place his glass on the stone and lets his hand slide lightly down the bare skin of her arm, tangling his fingers with hers and ducking his face down close.

“Bloody hell, lass. Try not to look so terrified when I touch you. You’ll give us away.”

She tries to relax because he is right and she is _stupid_ and this whole thing is just so _ridiculous_ –

“Lean your face into my hand.” He mutters lowly and his free hand brushes her cheek, fingers dancing across her skin. She obeys and tilts her head further into his grip, his bright blue gaze mesmerizing as he grins lightly, tongue sliding along his bottom lip.

“Now smile.” He sing-songs into her ear and she forces a shaky grin. He huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Gods above – a _real_ smile, darling. Am I truly that miserable to be around?”

She chuckles lightly and he responds in kind, nose brushing hers in a sweet little nudge.

“There’s a good girl. Put your hands on my chest.” She obeys, the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin shirt and into her hands. She sighs at the humming in her blood, her nervousness fading away into a slow simmering heat. His fingers drift back against her cheek and into her loose curls, anchoring there and tilting her head up slightly.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispers and she tilts her head up slightly, lips brushing gently at the corner of his mouth. She can feel his grin the moment before his lips close over hers – warm and gentle and _electric_ and _fuck this was a terrible idea_ – but she just pushes herself further into his grip, chasing the gentle rolling of his mouth against hers, parting her lips when she feels his teeth nip lightly.

She sighs and tangles her fingers in his dark hair and for the first time in _months_ – doesn’t think a damn thing at all.

-/-

“Emma.”

She wakes with a start, immediately meeting his slightly concerned gaze in the stillness of the room. He’s leaning over the ridiculous mound of pillows between them (it’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s _not_ ), hand outstretched like he was about to shake her, fingers instead twisting around a loose thread on a pillow shaped like a cat.

Weird pillow.

“You alright?” He whispers.

She nods and runs the back of her hand against her cheeks – the moisture there not at all surprising. She’s had nightmares for as long as she can remember – quiet ones that tug and pull at her, only getting worse after everything that happened with Neal. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, shuffling further under the blankets.

“Did I wake you?”  

He frowns down at her and then huffs lightly through his nose. “A bit.” But there is no annoyance there, just gentle concern and the way he’s looking at her makes something in her stomach flip. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

She shakes her head and his frown deepens, scratching his hand roughly through his hair. His gaze darts from her to the pillows between them and he narrows his eyes, picking up the strange cat pillow between his thumb and forefinger (like the thing personally offends him) and flinging it off the bed. He begins dismantling her precious wall - pillow by pillow - tossing them every which way and she stares up at him with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?”

He ignores her, lips tilting up in a stupidly happy grin when there is nothing no longer between them. He looks at her expectantly (she does _not_ stare at the sudden reveal of his body, does _not_ allow her gaze to trail the strong line of his throat, the smattering of dark hair that covers his broad, bare chest) and motions with his hand for her to turn over.

Panic flashes in her chest and it’s like he can read her thoughts because he rolls his eyes, fingers carefully landing on her arm and pushing her over so her back is to him.

“You need to be held, love.” He manipulates her pliant body easily, careful to touch her in only appropriate places, fingers avoiding any and all skin contact. She relaxes almost immediately at his touch, the warmth that blossomed in her chest with his kiss returning tenfold.

He scoots in close, wrapping his arm snug around her waist and dragging her back into him. His body is deliciously warm against her always frigid toes, and he only hisses through his teeth once when she makes contact.

“Bloody hell, are you always this cold?”

Tears prick behind her eyes at his question, and she knows he didn’t mean it like _that_ , but it burns her all the same. She sniffles and clenches her eyes shut.

“Yes.” She whispers, a little bit broken, because she _is_ – cold, emotionless, and –

He tenses behind her and she thinks he’s going to say something else, but instead he just brushes back her hair with his free hand, settling his chin on her shoulder. His breath is warm against her neck and he sighs.

“Sleep, Emma.”

She doesn’t have the energy to overthink his actions right now - doesn’t even think to ask him how much _more_ this is going to cost her (in more ways than one, she just _knows_ it). She relaxes into his arms and sighs, letting sleep pull her under again.

-/-

She moans as he pushes her down into the mattress of the bed, cat pillows tumbling every which way, his fingers gripping her thigh tighter, pulling her leg higher against his hip – stretching and burning and _fuck_ – he hits her just right and her fingers scrabble for purchase against his shoulders, a low whine caught in the back of her throat. His blue eyes search hers and he grins, slow and predatory.

“There’s a good girl. That’s what I want.” His head ducks down and his thick black hair brushes her chin as he closes his mouth around her nipple, running his tongue over it in a rough stripe before tugging it between his teeth. She arches her back and _god_ – how did they even end up here? 

She thinks of soft looks and gentle touches and kind words and tension thick like summer haze and blue eyes and sinful smiles and drinks at the bar and –

He swivels his hips and pushes his arm behind her back, angling her up slightly and she ceases to think anything at all. She drops her hands from around his neck and falls back to the bed as he rears above her, thrusting hard and sliding his hand down and around her thigh. Heat coils and pulses low in her belly as his thumb finds where they are joined, a deep groan rumbling from his chest when she arches further into his touch.

“Come on, love.” His thumb drags roughly against her, circling harder, faster, tighter. The heat is in her blood now, singing and simmering and she can’t _breathe_ , can’t even think of anything but him and this and _them_ –

She comes without any warning at all, white spots bursting behind her eyes as her fingers tangle in her hair and she moans his name, long and low. He pushes her through it with gentle strokes against her and when she comes down he falls on top of her, fucking into her hard and fast as he chases his release. She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, crossing them at the ankles and he lets out a growl. She bites into the sensitive skin under his ear with a sharp nip and his hips lose their rhythm, pressing against her in stilted and disjointed movements as he finally comes. He circles his hips and then collapses fully on top of her, his body heavy and warm – chest slick with sweat.

Shaking fingers twist through her curls as they struggle to catch their breath and she sighs – feeling _used_ but so _perfect_.

He presses a kiss against her temple and then pulls off of her with a groan, flipping onto his back and staring at the ceiling with wide blue eyes. He chuckles lowly and she smiles, wiping a stray strand of hair off of her forehead and falling back against the pillows. She watches his chest rise and fall, a floating sort of happiness mixing with delicious exhaustion to make her feel light.

She didn’t know it could be like _that_.

“Gods above.” He groans on a heavy sigh and tilts his head towards her, blue eyes shining as a smile curls his lips. “You sure do know how to make a man earn his pay, love.”

And just like that, it evaporates. Her throat constricts and her stomach plummets down, down, _down_ – a searing coldness seeping into her bones. _Of course_ it was meaningless to him. She was _paying_ him to be here – paying him to kiss her and rub her cheek and hold her while she slept and –

Her breath hitches and she averts her gaze quickly, hands blindly searching for the sheet to bring up and cover her exposed chest. She scans the floor for her shirt and jeans, cursing lightly under her breath when she finds her sweater – over a _lamp_ – because she needs to get out of here, _now_. When did she become this person? This person who _pays_ some guy she found in a newspaper for sex because she’s too broken and shattered to be _normal_. And then think it _meant_ something.

“Emma?”

Fingers graze her cheek and she winces, pulling away from his grip and practically falling out of the bed, taking the sheet with her, twisting it tight around her like a fucking toga. She keeps her eyes on the floor instead of his sprawled out and naked body – tan and lean and _jesus_ she is stupid – stupid, sad, alone, broken –

“It was only a jo –“

“Please, stop.” She shakes her head hard and desperately tries to ignore the burning behind her eyes as she snatches her sweater off the lamp and shuffles towards the bathroom door. She just needs to think for a moment, just a second to catch her breath and _stop the humiliation_. She pauses at the door and forces her voice to be even.

“I’ll add it to your check.” She whispers and she knows she’s failed because his sharp inhale is the last thing she hears before the bathroom door clicks quietly shut behind her.

-/-

He has been moody all morning – shooting her withering glares over the ornate centerpieces at the brunch celebrating the beautiful couple, clenching his jaw in a set line and practically vibrating in his hostility. She rolls her eyes and whispers for him to _knock it off_ because people are starting to stare and the last thing she needs after _everything_ is a scene with her fake boyfriend who is actually a hooker who she _slept_ with and _god_ –

She pinches the bridge of her nose and pulls the napkin from her lap as he mumbles something under his breath, pressing his knife aggressively against his toast.

She didn’t do anything _wrong_. He is the one who reminded her of what they are – a broken woman paying a man to _love_ her – jesus.

_How did she end up like this?_

Her eyes drift over to Neal, sitting and laughing with his arm around _her_ , brown eyes bright in happiness – and her answer hits her like a sucker punch to the gut. She throws her napkin onto her empty plate and pushes back, excusing herself with a half-hearted excuse and making her way to the large double doors that lead back to the ornate country mansion booked for the weekend.

Her footsteps are quiet in the empty hallway and it isn’t until his loud footsteps sound behind her that anxiety comes clawing up her throat. 

“Emma!”

She shakes her head, blonde hair curling around her shoulders and bites her lip. “I’m just going to freshen up.”

But he doesn’t listen, instead catching up to her quickly with his long strides, muted fury in every heavy step. He grabs her arm and tugs her roughly to the side, wrenching open the first available door and pulling them through.

It’s a closet.

She pushes against his chest as he swings the door shut, plunging them into darkness. There’s a wool coat scratching against her cheek and she’s pretty sure her foot is stuck in a box of pillows (probably cat ones) and she is _pissed_. He has no right.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” He seethes and if possible, her blood pressure rises, red flashing behind her eyes.

She opens her mouth to respond but he plows on. “It was a comment made in jest, Emma. I was not actually implying for you to _pay_ me for that, gods. How callous do you think I am?”

His elbow brushes her shoulder as he runs his fingers through his hair agitated and her throat squeezes, eyes blinking as she tries to catch up with this conversation. “I don’t –“

“What happened to you? Why do you believe yourself so undeserving of a person’s affections?”

She freezes at that, body locking down. She breathes out hard through her nose and he sighs, fingers suddenly making contact with her collarbone, sliding up slowly so that his hand cups her neck.

“Is that what you feel for me, Killian?” Her voice sounds dead even to her own ears, the tone flat and dull. “Affection?”

Because it can’t be true – no one could ever feel _anything_ for someone like her. She will end up alone because she _always_ ends up alone – left behind in the dust – left for something better.

His voice is careful when he answers her, sad and a little bit vulnerable and she recognizes herself in it, the paralyzing fear of _feeling_.

“Maybe.” He whispers.

But it’s suddenly too much, this idea that maybe he is just as broken as her, that around him she _feels_ something – forgets the terrible thoughts and dreams and nightmares that have plagued her ever since Neal and –

The idea that maybe they can fix each other.

She steps back away from him and presses both hands against his chest, holding him back and away from her. She looks down at the ground.

“I think you should go. This was a silly idea.”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is desperate between them. “Don’t push me away. Please love, talk to –“

“You need to go.” She cuts him off with a quiet whisper and she just needs him to _leave_ because in this small space - so close, so _knowing_ \- it’s too much and she is going to break again if he keeps talking. She is going to break and crumble and there will be nothing left but smoke and ash because he will leave her eventually, leave her and she just _can’t_.

She needs to leave him first.

“Is that what you want?”

She tries not to hate herself. “Yes.”

The sudden light of the hallway blinds her and she falls back against the wall when the door closes quickly behind him.

-/-

When she finally makes her way back to their room – her room – it’s empty. His shoes are missing, as well as his suitcase and the jacket he had strewn over the chair in the corner. She fingers lightly at his pillowcase and resists the urge to press her face down into it.

_Stupid_.

A fluttering piece of paper catches her attention on the dresser and she slowly walks over to it.

Her heart breaks when she realizes it’s the check she wrote him for his services, a post it note with the words _Keep it_ written neatly on top.

-/-

And she’s crying (because she’s been crying for hours because she is stupid for sending him away, stupid for _pushing_ him away) when she opens the door, the pounding on the other side aggravating her headache, the bottle of wine held loosely between her fingertips already half gone.

But she doesn’t care because he’s suddenly standing in front of her and his shirt is kind of half buttoned like he was in a hurry and his hair is absolutely wild on top of his head and she just –

“You forgot your money.” She whispers and she wants to smack herself because she sounds so _broken_ but he just shakes his head and throws his suitcase on the floor, reaching for her and bringing her close.

“No.” He says quietly and his nose brushes hers. “I forgot you.”

-/-

“Have I told you how stunning you look yet?”

The band is playing some sort of easy jazz and she blushes scarlet as his lips brush her ear, fingers gripping her hip tight and pulling her closer into his embrace. She can feel the corner of his lips curve upwards in a grin as they spin around the dance floor, his movements fluid and sure. She nods because he  _has_ \- atleast four times now - and every single time she blushes blood red and its embrassing and its  _perfect_. He chuckles, fingers sliding up fractionally to run across the bare skin of her back.

“But I must say - I am much more interested in what’s underneath.”

She pulls back slightly and looks up at him from under her lashes, heat radiating from the place his hand is stroking against bare skin and simmering low in her belly. She  _wants_ him - wanted him since he came out of the bathroom in the navy blue suit with the matching vest - blue eyes twinkling in amusement as he twisted on his watch ( _See something you like, darling?)_. She nudges his chin with her nose and presses her lips to the hollow of his throat, humming when he groans lightly under his breath.

“I can solve that mystery for you now, if you’d like.” He arches an eyebrow as he turns them, slowly making their way across the dance floor back towards the bar. She smiles serenely and twirls under his arm when he extends her, falling back into step with him like they’ve been doing this forever – like its _easy_ (and she isn’t terrified when her mind simply reminds her that it _is_ ). She presses up on tiptoes and puts her mouth against his ear.

“Nothing.” She whispers and he trips over his own feet.

-/-

Her laugh turns into a moan when he drops to his knees in front of her in the small closet (the _same_ closet, actually), his hands pushing apart her thighs as her head drops against the wall with a dull thud. This is probably a dumb idea – sneaking off to make out in a closet like a couple of teenagers during the reception – but then his beard scratches against the inside of her thigh and she can’t bring herself to care.

She wants this. She _needs_ this.

“I’m curious to see if you were teasing me earlier, Swan.” His lips press against her knee as his fingers glide along her legs, growing closer and closer to where she needs him. She spreads herself a bit wider as he _finally_ grazes her sensitive skin and she whines as he groans, teeth nipping at her skin with a harsh pant.

“Not teasing.” He grits out and his hand shifts, pulling her closer to him. His breath is hot against her leg and _okay_ , this is definitely more than making out but _fuck_ -

“Gods you’re wet.” He mutters and his thumb brushes against her lightly. She shifts – the heat unbearable and the pressure _not enough_ – fingers grasping his hair and tugging impatiently. He nips at the sensitive skin of her thigh again and she stills, the rest of his fingers cupping her hotly and starting a gentle rhythm. She rocks down against his hand and he tugs her leg over his shoulder, pushing her skirt up and over her hips.

“Be a good girl and come for me, yeah?”

-/-

Her dress is twisted around her waist and she’s pretty sure it’s torn in the back but she doesn’t care – her body humming with satisfaction as they lay haphazardly on the bed in their room. He’s panting on his side next to her, fingers lazily drifting back and forth over her arm. She tilts her head and meets his gaze and he grins wide, nuzzling into her shoulder with a wide yawn.

“I’m still wearing my shoes.” He slurs and she laughs – light and free and _happy_. She looks down at her stiletto clad feet and nods.

“Me too.”

“Ah, but I do believe that was a personal request.” She tries not to blush as she thinks exactly how much he _enjoyed_ those shoes but it causes heat to curl in her stomach and _god_ \- they just got done – how can she still feel like this?

His hand curls around her arm as he pulls her over to him and his lips press against her jaw. “Emma?”

She hums in reply, tucking herself further into his grip.

“When we get back to Boston, would you like to go to dinner?” She blinks her eyes open to see a wicked smile begin against his lips. He ducks down and catches her in a slow kiss – languid and lazy as their tongues twist together. He pulls back and nips lightly at her bottom lip.

“I’ll pay.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Prompt: CS/AU smutty they meet in a party because their Bf (regina and robin) are dating. They fuck in the bathroom (+10 points if the stumble with the shower curtain, fall into the bathtub and get all wet ;) (+200 if it's funny and cute_

“I don’t, fuck – “ She cuts off on a gasp as he bites down hard on the skin between her shoulder and neck, pushing her back roughly against the sink. He kicks the door shut with his foot and blindly fumbles for it with his right hand, keeping his left curled around her hip as he twists the lock shut.

“I don’t usually do this.” She finishes lamely even as her fingers tangle in his hair, pushing his face further into her neck. She can feel his grin pressed against her and his knee moves between her own, gently urging her legs apart.

“Neither do I.” He mumbles against her skin, hand inching down her hip to her thigh to the hem of her skirt. His fingers run back and forth gently, caressing over bare skin and then the fabric in careful consideration and she sighs when he slips his hand fully underneath, gripping her leg and bringing it up around his hip.

They groan in unison when their hips fall in line and she pushes up as he pushes forward – the friction between them delicious. He pulls back and looks at her with hooded eyes, the blue even brighter in the weird fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. He circles his hips against her again, fingers tightening their hold on her thigh, and she bites her lip.

“I don’t even know your name.” She whispers and he chuckles, mouth falling to hers and sucking her bottom lip roughly.

“Killian Jones.” He replies easily and she laughs into his mouth because after all the fight she put up – _it would be_.

He pulls back and gives her a slightly wounded look but it loses its heat when he grinds against her in the same moment, fingers inching higher up her bare thigh, taking the hem of her skirt with it. She uses his shoulders to push herself up on the ledge of the sink, wrapping her legs fully around his waist and pulling him forward with a fist in his shirt.

“Emma Swan.” She gives as way of explanation. Recognition sparks in his eyes and he grins.

“Regina’s roommate? The girl Robin keeps trying to set me up on a blind date with?”

Her fingers find his belt buckle as he tugs on her shirt. She moans into his lips and arches her back as his free hand slips under her bra, cupping her roughly.

“That’s me.”

-/-

Her hair sticks to the back of her neck in a wet, tangled mess and Killian isn’t much better – black hair in total disarray as they stand in front of Robin and Regina. Their clothes are sopping and _definitely ruined_ but her grin is wide and she can’t help the actual absurd giggle that leaves her lips when Killian hands over the torn shower curtain and broken rail.

Robin takes it with a horrified expression and Regina just arches one perfect eyebrow, focusing in on their joined hands. Killian tugs her closer into his side and swings an arm over her shoulder, like it is perfect and natural and like they didn’t just fuck in the bathroom at a crowded party, breaking the shower in the process.

(Because he said he could hold her but then he shifted and she moaned and bit down _hard_ on his neck and down they went but they didn’t stop because – _don’t you dare fucking stop_ – and well, that was that.)

Regina smirks.

“I see you two finally met.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Prompt: if you're ever in the mood for something particularly smutty, cs porn star au?_

_Rated M, obviously. (lolololololol -  I am so sorry.)_

**satisfied and smiling.**

A loud moan echoes through the soundstage and she arches her back, hooking her ankles around his hips as he continues to slam into her. This is easily one of the more ridiculous set ups for a porno she’s done (a pirate and his slave, are you _kidding_?), but he looks good in eyeliner and the leather is doing things to her so she goes with it. His fingers grip her hips almost painfully as he leers down at her and she moans again as he slides his arm around her back, angling her hips just so, his thickness dragging against her in _just_ the right spot.

She never has to exaggerate with him – never has to force a strangled sounding moan or whimper. Everything is one thousand percent genuine.

She is sure her viewers will be pleased.

She certainly is.   

“Does that feel good?” His voice rumbles over her and she closes her eyes, hand reaching for her breast as he slows his thrusts, circling his hips above her. The wooden table at her back scrapes against her skin and she has a feeling she will be picking out splinters later (the intern _always_ forgets to sand the thing down and yes – there is a porn intern) but she quickly focuses all of her attention on him as he swats her hand away.

“I think I’ll do that.” His fingers twist at one pert nipple and she whines in her throat, legs scrambling for purchase against his leather clad hips. He grins when she meets his gaze, slow and feral and _god_ , why don’t they work together all of the time?

His hand slides roughly down her stomach as he thumbs at her clit and the churning in her stomach builds to a dull roar, his hips picking up the pace and skin slapping against skin. She knows this is the part where she is supposed to finish, writhing in ecstasy as she is thrown over the edge and every other time she would – fake moaning her way through a fake orgasm as whatever actor she’s working with finishes for the camera – over her stomach or breasts or (god she hates it so much) her face. But she’s so close, _actually_ close. And he’s moving just right, like he _knows_ her, like he actually cares if she finishes and –

“Fuck.” He bears down on her, hands landing on either side of her head as he pumps in earnest. He drags against her clit with every rough thrust and she anchors her fingers in his hair, fusing her lips with his and biting rough at his bottom lip. This is against the script (hell, probably against the rules), but she doesn’t care. She just needs it – needs _him_.

He moans into her mouth and it sets her off, her orgasm crashing over her quickly. She lets out a stilted moan as he continues to push her through it, his hips circling in jerky little movements. He pulls out abruptly as she continues to flutter around him, his hand closing around his cock as he finishes himself off, warm and wet on her stomach. She stares up at him with wide eyes and a heaving chest as he lets his chin drop down, a light sheen of sweat over his tanned skin.

The director yells cut and she’s suddenly reminded of where they are – in a crowded soundstage. His fingers caress her jaw before he pushes himself off of her, leaving her feeling cold as she closes her legs.

Someone tosses him a towel and he frowns down at her as he carefully and quietly cleans her off, reaching out for her hand when he’s done, helping her into a sitting position. He is gentle and attentive and easily the most caring of all the men she’s ever worked with, making sure she’s okay before even taking care of himself. He wraps a robe around her shoulders and then pulls one on himself, shifting in front of her and scratching lightly behind his ear.

“Uh, Emma?”

She ties the sash around her waist and arches an eyebrow, amused by the blush that is steadily climbing his cheeks. The man just fucked her into a table in front of twenty people and _now_ he’s blushing?

“Yes?”

“I was, uh –“ He sighs heavily and shifts again, body moving back and forth. “I just wanted to know if –“

Butterflies flare in her stomach and a slow smile works its way over her face, tilting her lips and crinkling her eyes. She tangles her fingers with his, stilling his movements as he messes with his sash.

“Killian, did you want to grab dinner?”

Blue eyes peek up at her from under dark lashes and he blinks at her in shock before a timid grin tugs at his mouth. Her eyes flicker to his lips and she resists the urge to tug on his bottom lip with her teeth (again), run her tongue against it and _taste_ him.

“Aye, I’d like that.”

“I have to warn you, though.” She leans forward and lets her nose nudge against his, relishing in the shaky breath that he releases. “I don’t kiss on the first date.”

(She does actually – kiss on the first date. In fact, they end up back at his place and he is soft and gentle and his eyelashes flutter as he moves above her in his big bed, fingers tangled with her own as his quiet groan echoes in the still room.

She stays with him too, and when she wakes to his sleepy smile and crazy, mussed up bed hair, she sends a silent prayer of thanks to the casting director.)


	6. Chapter 6

_Sleepless in Seattle CS AU because I love this movie with the passion of a thousand burning suns._

**a kiss to build a dream on.**

He watches as his breath fogs the air above him, a white whisper of exhalation quickly whipped away by the breeze over the bay. He’s far enough away from the city that he can see the stars, the inky black of night no longer polluted by the too-bright lights of skyscrapers and street posts. 

He hums  _jingle bells_  under his breath and wishes on a star (thats probably an airplane, but hey), all the while burrowing down further in his jacket. He can’t feel the tip of his nose anymore and this is a _shitty_  Christmas tradition (December is far too cold to be out boating by yourself), but it’s his, and he doesn’t have much that is anymore. 

He sighs and tries not to think about how quiet it is out here - how small he feels under the expanse of stars, rocking gently back and forth splayed on his back on the deck of his small boat. 

It’s just another holiday alone. Another useless day notched up with all the others - 

\- alone.

He stands with a grunt and reaches for the radio, rolling his eyes when he flicks it on because apparently he’s so far out he only gets one channel and  _Dr. Hopper and the Night Line_ is not the festive stylings he was hoping for. 

But the voices soothe the sharp ache in his chest and he turns it up a little more, snorting to himself as a man (Disappointed in Denver?  _Really?_ ) explains his problems in the bedroom and  _why the bloody hell would someone bring that up on national radio?_

He drifts in and out of active listening, coiling a stray piece of rope in and out of his fingers as he gazes out at the open expanse of water. It reminds him of Liam, and Milah, and he idly wonders if there will ever be anything that doesn’t. It will get better, they said,  _easier_ , but he’s yet to find something that chases away the pain. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be calling in?” Dr. Hopper’s soothing voice jumps into something resembling indignation and Killian turns his ear back to the radio, frowning slightly at the old metal thing. It definitely belonged to Liam, if the chipped paint on the edge is any indication, and he had been loathe to part with anything that was once  _his_. 

“I’m old enough.” The air of superiority the  _obviously_  young caller manages to squeeze into that short sentence makes Killian laugh, and he leans back, pillowing his head with his hands, abandoning the rope back to the deck. The radio cuts in and out with a burst of static and he knocks at it with his foot, intrigued by this small voice and his big attitude. 

“- she doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t think I notice, but I do.” The voices come back into clarity with a flourish and Killian sighs in relief (too quiet, too dark, too  _alone_ ), tilting his head to the side. 

“And why doesn’t your mother sleep, Henry?”

“My dad, he left.” It hits Killian square in the chest, a sharp pang of understanding. “Last year, my mom was pretty upset about it. He - oh, shoot - “ 

There is a scuffle over the radio and Killian grins because he has the distinct feeling Henry’s mother did not endorse her child spewing her dirty laundry for the world to hear. His suspicions are confirmed when the telltale signs of a struggle are over and a very feminine, very  _irritated,_  voice descends on the line. 

“Who the hell is this?” 

He chuckles. 

“This is Dr. Hopper, from the  _Night Line_ , and Henry called in to tell us about some problems you’ve been having lately - “

“You did  _what_?” He imagines a small boy shrinking in the glare of his mother but it seems like little Henry has some backbone, because his voice echoes over the line once more (another phone on the line it seems, and he wonders how many people even  _have_ landlines anymore). 

“Come on, mom. Talk to him! I told him about dad and how you don’t sleep and I think he can help!” 

There is dead silence and Killian gnaws on his lip, curiously anxious over whether or not the woman will speak again - something in her voice calling to him - making his heart beat a little bit harder in his chest, his breath quicken and twist. 

(But that could be the half finished bottle of rum by his feet - it certainly could.) 

There is a heavy sigh, and then a beat of silence. “We had a pretty tough time, there at first.” Her voice is timid, resigned, and she is quite the mother indeed if she is willing to indulge her son in such an exercise. “But we’re dealing with it, and Henry and I will get along just fine again - as soon as I break his radio.” 

He laughs loud and free, a sharp bark that echoes over the water. He listens as Dr. Hopper questions the woman -  _Emma_ , he comes to find out - all about her sleep patterns and her failed relationship and what exactly happened between her and this Neal. She weaves a brisk tale of failed, young love - her voice only breaking twice - and his fingers clench at his sides, each word sinking into him and reverberating. He can feel it in his bones - the  _loneliness_  - stretching across miles and miles through a ridiculously tiny box and it’s so  _stupid_ , but he feels like he knows her, like he can see her face - like if he closed his eyes and turned his head, this Emma would be right on his little boat with him. 

“Don’t you think you deserve a second chance at love, Ms. Swan?” Dr. Hopper’s voice is ridiculously optimistic. “Don’t you think you can have a happy ending?” 

“Magic doesn’t exist.” He mutters to himself and he thinks of his own life - a brother ripped away, a love torn apart. He’s just about to flick off the radio and drown his sorrows in the rest of that rum (tradition and all that) when - 

“Magic doesn’t exist.” Her voice is tired and soft and he can picture a sad smile lifting the corners of her lips - which is sodding ridiculous because he’s never seen the woman, doesn’t know a thing about her except she has a son with a rebellious streak and a voice that sounds like heaven and - 

Bloody hell - more rum indeed. 

-/-

“What’s this?” A heavily tattooed arm descends over his shoulder and grabs for the letter he has been meticulously working on for the past two hours. He tries to snatch it back, tries to tear the thing in half in an effort to make it illegible because if he  _sees,_ if he  _figures it out_  - 

“Dear Sleepless in Seattle,”  _Seven hells_. “I don’t often write letters such as this but -“ 

Robin’s voice drifts off as he continues to silently read and Killian drops back to his desk in defeat, slumping in his chair and choosing to study his shoes as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world. The letter was a mistake - this whole  _thing_  is a mistake - and he just wants to disappear. Have the earth swallow him up because that would be more pleasurable than the way Robin is gaping at him, letter hanging loosely between two fingers. 

“Shut up.” He grumbles, tearing the letter back and crumpling it into a tight ball. He never should have looked up the address, never should have listened to the broadcast again. It’s just some weird holiday voodoo working on his brain - the way her voice soothes him, makes him calm and chases away the pain. 

It’s ridiculous. 

He doesn’t even know her. 

He stands and flings the crumpled paper into the trashcan, forcing a smile and stalking past Robin to the door. 

“Lunch?”

-/-

“You did what?” 

Two days later and Robin shrugs, mouth full of pastrami sandwich. 

“I sent the letter.” Killian continues to just stare, so Robin rolls his eyes. “Killian, you haven’t so much as  _looked_  at anyone since Milah. I sent the damn letter.” 

He looks back at his plate, suddenly not hungry, because the letter was sent. She could be reading it right now - her and her Henry - laughing at the silly man over in Boston with his ridiculous words and _bloody hell_ , she probably thinks he is a moron, probably thinks - 

“It was a good letter.” 

Killian drops his head to the bar and groans. 

-/-

The letter he receives back is very confusing and mentions something about the Empire State Building and doesn’t sound anything at all like the woman on the phone, and yet - 

\- he doesn’t have any plans that day, and he always did want to see New York. 

-/-

He’s a fool. 

The wind ruffling his hair reminds him of the wind out on the water (and oh, how he desperately wishes he was on the water - the soothing ebb and flow of the tide giving him the strength to grasp his bearings), but he cant see the stars here, out on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. He shoves his hands in his pockets and does his best not to let the chasm in his chest break him completely as he swallows down the disappointment, hard and brittle on his tongue. He was a fool to think anything would come over a silly infatuation with a  _voice_ , that a letter could make any sort of impact at all. 

It was all probably Robin’s doing in the end. He knew the letter sounded off. Perhaps this is all some elaborate joke. 

(He remembers the way Robin had smiled hopefully at him at the boarding gate, a hearty clap in his shoulder and soft spoken words of encouragement, and knows that this is not a joke. Robin is not that cruel.) 

There is a flutter by his feet and he glances down, taking in the large, ancient looking book that has fallen open. The wind brushes over the pages and they cascade together in a wave of color and blurred words before finally landing on a spread of a castle, a dashing man on horseback riding towards one of the towers - a faint hint of blonde signaling the princess within. He kneels down and picks it up, fingers running reverently over the edges of the pages because this is obviously a thing well-loved, the smell of book and home and happiness wafting over him as another strong breeze pulses through the deck. 

“I left it right - “ 

A voice to his left catches his attention and he turns, open book still held between two hands. A small boy with brown hair and brown eyes stares up at him, eyes trained on the book, slowly glancing over to him. His excitement seems to come upon him all at once and he hops up and down, wordless little noises of enthusiasm caught in his throat. 

“Henry, what -“ 

Everything freezes - or at the very least, he stops breathing - because this is  _her_. He knows it, can feel it in every part of his being. He can feel it in the way the air changes around him, the way he finally feels  _calm_  - like falling asleep after a long journey. Her cheeks are flushed and she is wearing a large knit cap (far too large for her head, really) snug over her ears, blonde tendrils slipping loose and caressing her cheeks and gods above, he’s never seen anything more lovely. 

“Hello.” She whispers and he smiles - slowly, tenderly - because he’s found her. He’s found her and he can finally  _breathe_. 

He nods a bit back, a whispered  _hello, love_  as she blinks rapidly, eyes darting all over his face as she struggles to recognize him. She takes another step forward and puts her hand on Henry’s shoulder. 

“Are you Killian?” 

His focus snaps to the boy and his smile only widens, cheeks stretching painfully, because he now knows why the letter sounded off. He snaps the book closed and hands it over carefully. 

“Aye.” 

Henry grins. “This is my mom, Emma.” 

He lets his eyes drink in the sight of her surprise, the gentle curve of her lips. 

“Emma.” He reaches forward and takes her hand in his. When he presses his lips to her knuckles, she sighs, and his world shifts and realigns - his orbit now focused and sure. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Olympics AU.**

The air is humid in the empty arena, the chlorine and the gentle lapping of the water in the pool calming her nerves and easing the set of her shoulders. It’s better like this - without the frenzied screams of coaches and fans, without them media breathing down her neck as she stares at her reflection, blown up on the jumbotron. She’s never been one to let pressure get to her, but there is something about being on display for the entire  _world_ to see. 

“I do believe the pool is closed, Swan.” 

She rolls her eyes as he saunters out from behind the stands, all dancing blue eyes and cocky grin. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against one of the diving boards. 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

He makes his way over to her and slumps against the opposite side, the tension that  _always_ simmers between them heightened in the thick air. She breathes in deep and he catches it, smirking at her from the corner of his eye. 

“The same as you, I’d imagine.” He presses closer and lets his nose graze the outer shell of her ear, a whisper of spice and salt and  _Killian_  washing over her with his exhale. She bites the inside of her cheek to fight the hitch in her breath but he still chuckles,  _the bastard_. “Pre-match jitters.” 

She scoffs and turns to him, their faces a breadth apart. She can see the dark, navy blue that lines his eyes - the flecks of light brown in the center. “When have you ever known me to have jitters, Jones?” 

He smiles at her softly - a different kind of grin full of fondness and  _something_ , something she doesn’t  _want_  to articulate - his hand reaching up and ghosting along her neck, tugging at an errant strand of hair. “I seem to remember you being quite nervous in Sydney.” 

She tilts her head and mirrors his grin, the warmth spreading in her chest. He never did fail to make her feel like  _this_  - stupid, British moron. Her fingers close over his and she runs her thumb along the soft skin. “Well, I seem to remember  _you_  being nervous in Athens.” 

“Perhaps I just enjoy the way you release tension.” He hums under his breath with a secret smile that just  _promises_  dangerous things and leans back, arms crossing across his torso and tugging at the material of his Union Jack t-shirt. She grins despite herself, trailing the strong line of his chest with her heated gaze, watching as he undoes the buckle of his jeans. 

“Really?” 

He shrugs with an arched eyebrow as he drops the denim, nothing underneath  _of course_. He smirks. “Tradition is tradition.” 

Without another word, he jumps into the pool - the splash loud and echoing in the massive arena. She laughs as he bobs in the water in front of her, black hair matted to his forehead. 

“I suppose you’re right.” She sighs and presses at the button of her jeans. He grins as she shimmies them down her hips - wide and free and happy. 

“That’s my girl.” 


	8. Chapter 8

_Long distance AU._

**Come back home.**

She stares hard at the map on the wall while she sips her coffee, the tiny red dot drawn carefully over the place where he is mocking her with its cheery color. She should have chosen black or something equally morose because it’s not  _fun_  having him be away from her. She lets her gaze linger on the dotted line that connects the two places, counting the miles that stretch between them.

There are good days and bad days.

Today is a bad day.

As if sensing her mood, her phone rings (and she immediately pulls a tight smile because he can read her from four hundred miles away,  _of course_ ), the vibrations causing it to jump across the countertop as his face peers up at her from the illuminated screen (eyebrow raised as she snapped his picture, the blue of his eyes bright and shining and  _happy_ ).

“Hey.” She sighs and she can hear people in the background, immediately frustrated that he isn’t alone – wherever he is.

“Emma!” He laughs her name into the phone and she grimaces. “I love you!”

“I love you too. What’s up?” She can hear him mumbling to someone in the background and the irritation kindling in her chest flares and spreads. “Killian?”

“Sorry, I got distracted.” The voices fade out a bit and she assumes he’s walked off to someplace quieter - and while she has no reason at all to mad at him for  _calling her_  – she finds that she is. “How are you?”

“Are you busy?” She poses a question instead of answering his and she can practically feel him deflate on the other end of the phone.

“I just wanted to call you. I miss you.”

She bites at her lip, the pain striking fast and true. “I miss you too, but you sound like you’ve got something going on.” She picks at her nails as she ducks her head down, shoe scuffing at the kitchen cabinet restlessly. “How about you call me later?”

He hesitates, but she hears another burst of laughter in the background – a shout of his name. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah – go ahead.”

Today is a bad day.

-/-

They’re twisted together in his bed, the walls of his room still bare because he said he doesn’t want to decorate a temporary “landing space” (“This isn’t a home, love, not without you.”). Her body is sore in all the right places and they haven’t moved from the soft sheets since she arrived two hours ago.

 “I’m not happy.” She whispers.

His entire body stills, fingers clamping down over her arm mid-stroke.. “Do you want to –“ He swallows and she watches as his throat works over the words. “Do you mean –“

His voice wavers in uncertainty and she shakes her head hard. “No, no, not that. Stop.” She turns her head so she can meet his gaze and fights back the tears because she is not a person who cries, and  _damnit_ , she didn’t think it would be this  _hard._

Her shoulders lift and fall as she bites at her lip. “I’m just not happy.”

Blue eyes search hers and she notes that he wears the same tired expression - the same sadness that is lodged in her chest, shoved haphazardly there until it squeezes her lungs and she can’t _breathe_. He thumbs at the corner of her lips and she drops her forehead to his chin, pressing her toes against his shin because they only have a day left and she wants to remember what he smells like, what he feels like – the little puff of hot air against her shoulder, his calloused fingertips dragging against her skin.

(She doesn’t want to waste time being  _sad_ when she has him right here – firm and real and solid.)

“I’m not happy either.” He sighs and when her tears fall warm and wet on the skin of his shoulder, he just pulls her tighter.

-/-

She gets home shortly after midnight and she is  _exhausted_  – the long drive and emotions of the day seeping down into her very bones. She throws her bag in the hallway and kicks off her shoes – the emptiness of her apartment closing in on her.

She unzips her bag and pulls out the sweatshirt she stole from his closet, shuffling back towards the bedroom as she pulls it over her head. It smells like him, and when she falls into bed, she pretends like he’s there – that he is just coming home late from work and any second warm arms are going to wrap around her from behind, his lips pressed against her shoulder.

She starts when a pounding sounds at the door, head groggy as she blearily looks at the clock.

2:34 am.

She can hear it the moment the door swings open and her entire body locks down, adrenaline coursing through her thick and fast because her pepper spray is in her bag and she thinks she might be able to use her lamp as a weapon but she’s always been a slow-to-wake person and –

He kicks in the door to the bedroom and she blinks at him – his hair in total chaos, blue eyes wide. They just stare at each other in the silent stillness of her ( _their_ ) home and then he exhales, like he just surfaced from underwater and he can finally  _breathe_.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

She nods, still confused and he mirrors the action, toeing off his shoes and climbing onto the bed. His arms wrap around her as he collapses into the mattress with a sigh and she  _must_  be having a fever dream because he feels solid behind her, those little puffs of warm air branding into her neck.

“I wasn’t happy.” He mutters and when he noses deeper into her hair, fingers sliding under her (his) sweatshirt to find the bare skin of her stomach, she  _finally_  relaxes into his arms. 


	9. Chapter 9

_Miss Congeniality AU._

**one in a million.**

“Swan.” He lets his head drop against the wood of the dressing room door as David paces angrily behind him, muttering under his breath about  _pasties_  and  _healthy glow_  and god knows what else – he really doesn’t want to know. He made the mistake of asking the specifics of a Brazilian wax and he’s pretty sure he will carry that burden for the rest of his days. He taps lightly with his pointer finger and wills himself to find patience. “You’ve got to come out of there.”

There is shuffling on the other side of the door and a low growl and he bites his lip to hold back his snicker.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Jones. I will kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

He braces his body on the frame of the door. “Well, that would involve you coming out of the room, love.”

He can practically  _see_  her roll her eyes and this time he does chuckle. “Come on, now. It can’t be that bad.”

They had been at it all morning – turning her into a  _lady_. He had only caught sight of her once in transition and the look she had shot the poor assistant who attempted to touch one of her messy curls was enough to kill.

He had made himself scarce the rest of the afternoon.

But now – now she is acting like a  _child_  – refusing to come out of the dressing room because she is embarrassed or stubborn or something equally ridiculous. They have a job to do and she is busy _messing with her curls_  when she could be gathering valuable information from –

The door swings open and he practically falls through it, eyebrows knitting together when his gaze finally lands on her, the woman in front of him  _nothing_  like his partner.

“I could practically hear your internal monologue.” She grumbles as she adjusts her skirt, trying in vain to pull the pale blue material down further over her thighs. He shuffles and stuffs his hands in his pockets (at a loss for what else to do with them because  _touching_  is definitely not allowed), letting his eyes take her in.

A slow grin spreads across her lips the longer he stares at her and she pushes off the door with a careful nudge, swaying her hips in that tiny blue dress as she moves closer. She’s all seduction and long, loose curls – light eyeliner that pulls out the green of her eyes and  _holy shit –_ so much pale, creamy skin _._

“Do you like my dress, Jones?” He swallows hard as she lingers in front of him – the scent of warm honey and pure woman wrapping around him and pulling him under. “Is it a convincing –“ She drags her finger along the collar of his shirt and he grits his teeth against a shiver. “Disguise?”

He wants to know who this woman is and what she did with his horribly uncoordinated, snorting, messy haired partner. But she fists the material of his shirt in her hand suddenly, hauling him against her and ah, yes – there she is.

“Typical man, only showing interest when I make my face pretty.” She snarls the words and pushes him back with a rough shove. “Get your eyes off my tits and focus on the job, buddy.”

Stalking past him, she walks over to David (more like teeters carefully on her sky high heels – but that is neither here nor there). He runs a shaky hand through his hair and sighs.

This is going to be a very long assignment.

(He doesn’t mention that he has been interested for quite some time – since her first week when she laughed so hard she snorted and spilled her coffee all over Leroy. Because he’s got a theory she can kill him with her bare hands and he isn’t willing to test it.)


	10. Chapter 10

_High school football coach AU._

**hail mary. - part I**

“Your coach told you  _what_?” 

Henry is busy stuffing his face full of pasta as only a pre-teen hitting his hormonal glory days can, tomato sauce splattering the front of his jersey. She sighs and tries to remember where she put the stain sticker detergent (if she even bought it at all) and mentally calculates the time it will take to get this jersey clean before the next game.  

“He said I have natural talent on defense.” He’s practically bouncing in his seat in excitement, and it’s the first time since he started playing this stupid sport that he’s shown more than a glimmer of real engagement. 

(He started because of Neal - because of his father’s insistence to ditch the books and be a  _real man_. Henry was so desperate for his father’s approval that he had come home that night, begging her to let him play, and  _god dammit_  - she couldn’t resist those big brown eyes.)

“Defense? Really?” 

Henry frowns and his shoulder’s drop and she immediately hates herself. She sighs and pops a bit of spinach in her mouth, tilting her head to the side and pressing his pasta bowl closer with her pinky. 

“I just meant I can’t see you as a lineman.” He pokes and prods at his dinner. “Safety, though? Absolutely.” 

 

He grins and she smiles in response, the warmth that accompanies each increasingly rare moment of affection from her son anchoring in her chest. The conversation moves to weekend plans and the girl Lily she’s caught him texting on and off and she decides to let him run off to his room when his skin turns so red it looks like he’s about to burst in flames. 

(It take four washes to get the pasta sauce out, but she smiles the whole time, running her thumb over the  _SWAN_ stitched across the back and thinking of the little boy who used to climb into her bed at 7am with his book of fairytales - nestled safe in her arms.)

-/-

She’s going to kill Neal. 

Murder him on the spot, actually. 

She takes the turn into the school parking lot at an alarming speed, narrowly missing the curb and jerking to a stop. The two silhouettes at the picnic table closest to the school straighten up at her dramatic entrance, and she’s already halfway across the asphalt when they rise to greet her. 

“Henry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t have my phone and - “ 

“It’s cool, Mom.” Henry waves his hand in dismissal and she abruptly shuts her mouth. It isn’t like Henry to take his father’s shortcomings in such stride. This isn’t the first time Neal has forgotten to pick him up from practice, but it is definitely the first time Henry hasn’t been in pieces by the time she finally got there.

(Sometimes she wishes they never came back to New York, that they just stayed in Boston and Neal never had the opportunity to find them. But karma is a bitch, and she would have had to pay up in some way, some time.) 

“Killian hung out with me.” She ruffles his hair with a relieved sigh, turning her attention to the man hanging back by his side, hands deep in his pockets. She gives him a tight grin as she pulls Henry closer, taking in the stubble that covers his cheeks, the lean lines of his body. She doesn’t know what she was expecting when Henry described his football coach, but it certainly wasn’t  _this_. 

(Blue, blue,  _blue_  eyes and a soft smile that crinkles his eyes - holy  _shit_.) 

“Thank you.” She manages in a breathy voice ( _god_ ) _and_  Henry’s eyes narrow in consideration. She rolls her own in response because sometimes the kid is too damn astute for his own good. She coughs to clear her throat (she is  _not_  a teenaged girl) and forces a smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long, but I appreciate it.” 

Killian shakes his head after a moment, blinking rapidly and running a hand through his hair. “It’s not a problem.” Oh, an accent, perfect. “I’m sure Mr. Swan just got caught up, aye?” 

She snorts and Henry snickers into her shoulder. At the blank expression Killian tosses the both of them, she hastens to explain. “Oh, no. It’s just us. Henry and I. I mean, there’s Neal, but we’re not - he’s not - “ 

“My parents have never been married. I was an accident when they were stupid teenagers.” Henry gives them both a wide grin before turning and heading towards the car, helmet tucked under his arm. “Thanks, Killian!” 

There’s an awkward silence as they watch Henry climb into the back of the yellow bug and she fidgets, painfully aware of how close he’s standing. 

“Thank you again.” She whispers and he tilts his head to the side, ducking down slightly and peering up at her through his eyelashes. His grin is soft and bashful and the setting sun reflects off the windows of the school, casting them in a dim light that has her fingers itching to card through his hair - see if it’s as soft as it look and  _what the actual fuck is going on?_

_“_ It was a pleasure, Ms. Swan.” The way his lips wrap around the words makes her stomach do stupid things. He nods a bit and she takes a step backwards. “You have a remarkable boy.” 

Her car horn honks and he chuckles - a rough, warm sound that goes straight to her belly. Henry is half-leaning out the car, complaining about how hungry he is, and she is grateful for the distraction. She shoves her hands in her back pockets as she backs towards the car and then - 

“Mom, can Killian come to Granny’s with us?” 

Color rises high in Killian’s cheeks, rivaling the bright red and oranges that streak the sky with the setting sun. “No, no - I don’t want to intrude - “ 

“Yeah.” She cuts him off because  _fuck it_. This man just sat with her son for two hours past the end of practice because his father got to pick him up,  _again_ , and she likes the way he smiles. The least she can do is buy him a greasy BLT. “Want to follow us down?” 

He blinks, surprised no doubt, and then a slow smile curls the corner of his lips. He nods, taking half a step closer, and her breath catches in her throat. 

“Looks like your son is more suited for offense.” He murmurs and  _god_  - no one should sound like that. She smirks and backs away from his warmth, turning on her heel and walking towards the car. 

“See you in ten, Coach.” 

-/-

(His laugh is warm and rich as he steals fries off Henry’s plate, his knee bumping with hers underneath the table and  _okay_  - if she stares at him a little too long the next game, if she volunteers for the bake sale just to see what his mouth looks like with pink frosting in the corners, if she happens to kiss said frosting off his lips tucked behind the shed with her fingers in his hair, well then - 

\- she always did like offense.)

 

**quarterback sneak. - part II**

She hasn’t seen him in two weeks, not since the night she curled her hair and put on a pretty dress and he gave her flowers at her door, scratching behind his ear and blushing like an idiot while his eyes lingered on her bare legs. Henry had been grinning like the cat that got the freaking canary the whole time the two of them stood in the foyer of her loft, a smug smile turning the corner of his lips as she gave him pizza money and told him not to order any solicit movies on pay per view. 

It was a perfect first date. His shirt matched his eyes and he asked her questions like he actually  _cared_  - pulling out her chair at the table like some old world gentleman and  _where_  did this guy even come from? 

(London, apparently. Moved here with his brother when he was 17 and just so happened to fall into high school teaching - the coaching something he liked to do because it’s nice to be a part of something.)

(She melted a bit into her pesto penne at the gentle sincerity in his voice, but that is neither here nor there.)

He kissed her under the streetlight on the corner, his fingers gentle as he toyed with an errant curl - the November breeze sweeping around them but doing nothing to cool the fiery heat in her cheeks. It was soft and gentle and perfect and when he pulled her closer with an arm around her waist, she went willingly - tilting her head and letting him deepen it with a whispered sigh. 

(She could have sworn he still tasted like frosting, but perhaps that was muscle memory from the bake sale - his broken groan as she pressed him up against the garden shed behind the school still on loop in her mind.) 

The sheer  _panic_  hadn’t settled in until she was tucked under the blankets in her bed - the note on the kitchen counter making her roll her eyes in amusement ( _I’m wearing my headphones - you two crazy kids have fun_ ). Killian had left her at her door with a soft smile and an even softer kiss and while she had felt like she was floating - as soon as she was left alone she was in the fiery aftermath of a devastating crash. 

Nothing good ever lasts. 

She couldn’t do it - not with her son’s  _coach_. 

What was she even  _thinking_? 

It was (still is) surprisingly easy to avoid him. After a few ignored calls, he stopped trying - and she makes a valiant attempt  _not_  to notice the way his shoulders slump when she refuses to get out of the car during parent practice pick-up. 

Henry makes it all harder.  

His glares over the breakfast table speak volumes, but she’s evaded the topic successfully so far and honestly - this game is the first time since that night that she’s really looked at Killian.

He looks tired. 

And sad. 

(Fuck.)

Her eyes drift over to him every few moments despite her best intentions to focus on the game, the mom to her immediate right shooting her a glare when she shakes her knee too much in nervous anxiety. She’s so caught up in staring at the back of his neck - remembering the way his fingertips had grazed the apple of her cheek with gentle reverence, the way his eyes had darkened when she grazed her foot along his calf - that she almost doesn’t notice the gasp that ripples it’s way through the crowd. 

Almost. 

She cranes her head over the parents standing in front of her and her heart almost stops beating in her chest when her gaze lands on the back field. 

Henry is flat on his back, and he isn’t moving. 

She’s climbing down the bleachers before she’s even really decided to move, pushing her way out the old chain link fence that separates the field from the stands. The kids on the field have already fallen to their knee and the school nurse is out there but Henry still isn’t moving and oh _god_  - 

He looks so small - in his pads and helmet - eyes shut as she begs him to wake up. 

There are hands on her shoulders and she recognizes the warmth, but she can’t breath - she  _cannot_ breathe. 

An ambulance is called, the red and blue clashing terribly with the Friday night lights overhead. 

She climbs into the back and holds his hand, pressing her lips to his skin over and over again. 

There’s a grass stain on his knee, and she bites her lip against a sob when she tries to remember if she got stain sticker at the store. 

He groans and winces, and she swears she stops breathing again. 

“Mom?” 

She watches his cleats move, and  _god_  - 

She smiles through her tears. “Hey, kid.” 

She follows him into the hospital, legs like noodles as the emergency room staff meets him at the door. She waits in an empty room as they run tests and put him through machines, counting the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to fall apart. It feels like a lifetime later when they wheel him back in - his eyes bright and his hair messy - a hospital gown replacing his jersey and pads. 

Her hands run over every inch of his face, cupping his cheeks and pressing her nose to his forehead. He groans but lets her do it because she’s his mother, god damnit, and she almost  _lost_ him and - 

“So did you talk to Killian while I was back there?” 

She stops brushing his hair with shaky hands and pulls back to get a better look at him. “What?” 

“Killian.” Henry raises both eyebrows and adjusts himself in his little bed, wincing when he gets a look at his hospital gown. “Did you talk to him?” 

“Why would I - “

“Oh god, are you kidding?” Henry drops his head back against the pillow and lets out another groan. “All of this for nothing.” He murmurs to himself and she freezes, takes a step back. 

“Henry.” 

He didn’t. 

He  _wouldn’t._

“I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to give me an honest answer, do you understand?” Her voice is shaking but she can’t seem to control it right now because the idea that her son  _faked_  a life threatening injury in order to get her to  _talk_ to a man - well - that is a whole new level of pathetic. 

Even for her. 

Henry nods a bit and scoots further back in his bed, like that will save him.  _Good luck, buddy_. She takes a deep breath. 

“Were you faking a concussion so I would talk to your coach?” 

Henry shrugs, sheepish grin tilting the corners of his lips. “Maybe?” 

“Maybe or yes?” 

“Mom - “ 

The worry crystallizes into rage and she slams her fist down on the railing. Henry jumps, but she sees anger of his own reflected in those big brown eyes of his. 

“And how exactly did you think that would happen, Henry? Did you think I would chat it up with him while my  _son_ was laying unconscious?” 

“Silly me thinking you would thank the poor guy for following the ambulance to the hospital - an ambulance carrying the son of a woman who basically crushed his heart and turned him into some sad sack.” He huffs and she blinks, trying to catch up. “He’s here because he wants us, Mom. All of us, me and you, together. And he came not because he’s trying to bang and leave - “ 

_Jesus_ , she needed to set the parental controls on the tv. 

“ - but because he cares. So let him care. And go out with him again or next time I swear I’ll get more dramatic.” 

The lingering silence is filled by the beating of her heart and the steady beep of the machines around them. Henry maintains eye contact and she is dismayed to discover a lot of her stubborn nature has been passed right on along to her son. She shakes her head, trying to process the whirlwind of information while quelling the aftershocks of panic. 

_He is okay. He is okay._

“You get more dramatic than this?” Is really all she can say. 

Henry snorts. “Don’t press me.” 

-/-

Killian is waiting outside in the lobby, just like Henry said he would be. His hands are in his hair and his shoulders are tense but as soon as she comes through the double doors, he straightens - hesitating only for a moment before striding over quickly. 

He’s holding a bowl of jello.

She falls just a bit harder. 

His fingers twitch at his sides at it aches deep in her chest, the way he’s unsure - the way she’s  _made_  him unsure. 

“I know I have no right to be here - that you don’t want to see me.” His eyes look down and he scratches behind his ear and it’s like a revelation. She inhales sharp through her nose because Henry was right, the little mastermind, and while she doesn’t approve of his techniques (“Your insurance is stellar at the station, Mom, don’t even give me the garbage about hospital bills.”) she can’t say she minds the results. She tunes back in to Killian’s monologue just as he stammers out an apology, color rising high in his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry for everything. I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean to press you on our date and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I thought I should apologize, for encouraging Henry to play on defense. I can’t help but feel this is my fault and - “ 

Her fingers curl into the collar of his football polo and she yanks him forward, cutting off the rest of his apology with her mouth on his. His entire body goes rigid when she nips at his bottom lip and she pulls back just as quick to find bewildered blue eyes looking down at her. 

It’s her turn for a sheepish smile, and she runs her thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. 

“Henry was faking it.” She explains, and one eyebrow arches high on his forehead in surprise. “He wanted me to talk to you, give you a chance.” 

Killian blinks and she watches the relief wash over him - followed closely by realization. He relaxes in her death grip and sways closer, ignoring the nurse staring at them with obvious disapproval from behind the check-in desk. 

His fingers slide against the small of her back and it’s a wonder she doesn’t just melt into the ground, his eyes shining in the terrible fluorescents. 

“Did it work?” 

She nods and he kisses the smile from her lips. 

(Henry is smug propped up in his bed, watching  _Doomsday Preppers_  when they stroll in hand-in-hand, gratefully taking the jello from Killian.)

(The doctor is bewildered to find nothing wrong.)

(Henry’s grin doubles.)


	11. Chapter 11

_AU in which Killian and Emma are teacher chaperones at the high school dance._

**Go steady with me.**

“Had I known this is what you wear to chaperone, Swan,” He leans casually against the wall to her left, light smirk twisting the corners of his lips as he looks her up and down slowly. “Perhaps I would have volunteered sooner.”

She can practically feel his gaze as it lingers on the exposed skin of her collarbones, his ridiculous blue eyes flashing in the poorly lit gym. _Unfair_  – it is  _unfair_  how he manages to look so good in a gym covered in taffeta and hormones. His eyes flick back to hers with a grin.

“Please.” She rolls her eyes as another pre-teen lurks by, eyes fixed on her legs. She frowns and tugs her hem further down her thighs. Wrong dress – this was definitely the  _wrong_  dress. “I’m pretty sure you would argue just to argue with me.”

He chuckles, hearty and rich, and her stomach flips in response. “Too right, lass.” He leans forward until their shoulders are touching, the rough starch of his shirt (he chose to go decidedly informal, his usual vest abandoned for a dark blue button down and  _jesus christ_  does the loose necktie work for him) grazing her bare arm. “Perhaps I just like to see you all hot and bothered.”

She doesn’t back down from the innuendo lacing his words, instead turning and meeting him head on. That was a mistake though, because she can feel his breath hot on her neck, and she can’t help it when her eyes dart down to his lips.

“Be careful, Mr. Jones.” She adjusts his necktie so it’s straight, her pinky finger grazing the hollow of his throat. He inhales sharply, and she wonders what else she could do to make him sound like  _that_. “Your fan club might get jealous.”

He scowls adorably at that, his gaze drifting over her left shoulder at the gaggle of girls that she just  _knows_  is there. They follow him around like a shadow and while she knows it grates on his nerves, it is also endlessly amusing to watch him bob and weave through the halls during third period change over.

“I do believe the punch has made them bold.” He slouches against the wall and crosses his arms, effectively breaking contact between them. It’s a dangerous game the two of them are playing, and she idly wonders which one of them is going to break first.

(But she likes the burn – likes the way his gaze feels on her – hot anticipation building like a thundercloud between them.)

(She also likes the way he smiles – crooked and  _perfect_  – like she is special and important and  _worth something_  for the first time in her life. She doesn’t know when this idiot wormed his way into her head and heart, but there he is – spouting useless geographical knowledge while turning history facts into innuendos and  _god_  – when did that become  _cute_?)

“That’s what you get for spiking the punch.” She is definitely kidding but she blanches at the look on his face. “Killian, you didn’t.”

“No, I did not spike the punch. Although, a lot of these lads could certainly use the courage.” He nods over to the far wall where the more awkward boys are lingering, held together like a pack of baby animals. She frowns at that, and mentally encourages some of the girls to take pity and head over.

“Although,” She turns her attention back to Killian and notices the way he’s reaching into his back pocket, his shirt material pulled tight over his shoulders. She swallows hard. “I did bring this.”

He’s holding a flask between thumb and forefinger, shit-eating grin on his face, and she can’t help the smile that blossoms in response.

Courage, indeed.

-/-

They end up hiding in the small storage closet in the east wing of the school, far away from the loud music of the party and prying eyes. He’s laughing in the darkness and she can feel it humming through the air, electricity and light burning along her skin.

She takes a sip and he mutters something about her being a  _naughty teacher_  but she doesn’t let him finish because her lips are on his and he feels so  _good_  – fucking  _finally_.

He groans low in the back of his throat and hesitates for only a second before wrapping both arms around her, the full flask slipping from her hand and landing on the floor with a muted  _thump_  when she anchors her hands in his hair.

He breaks away with a gasp and slips his hand lower against her back, fingers lightly tracing over the swell of her ass. She moves her attentions to his neck, teeth grazing over the adam’s apple that’s been taunting her for months.

“Had I know this is how you are at school dances, love,” She can hear his smile, the idiot. “I would have volunteered  _much_  sooner.”  

 


End file.
